


Blow Up

by bittenfeld



Category: CHiPs
Genre: Assault, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(just an unfinished bit)  Sergeant Getraer has to come to terms with his intense homophobia, after he attacks Ponch physically, upon finding out about Ponch’s and Jon’s homosexual relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow Up

“Get away from my boy, you goddamn sonofabitch faggot!!”

The entire office had heard it… why oh why had he lost his temper like that? He wasn’t even sure what-all had happened then. It was just that, as he had been strolling down the corridor, he had just happened to glance into the staff lounge where Timmy sat at the table, engrossed in a comic book, a Dodgers baseball cap plunked backwards on his red hair, waiting for Dad to drive him home at the end of shift; and a surge of love for the boy had momentarily overcome the blackness crowding Joe Getraer’s mind.

But then he had seen Frank Poncherello step away from the row of vending machines against wall ( _what the hell is he doing here_? Joe’s mind had roared, _I left the bastard at his place_ …!), and the Puerto Rican officer had put a can of Coke on the table for the boy. Then Joe Getraer had exploded into the room, shouting obscenities, the only thought in his mind to protect his son from the filthy touch of that pervert; and he didn’t remember what happened next, but the moment after _that_ , he stood paralyzed in his tracks, the back of his right hand stinging ferociously, and Poncherello was dazedly pushing himself away from the coffee machine, trying to regain his balance. The sharp chrome edge of the machine had gashed a red cut that ran from over his right eyebrow across the bridge of his nose and oozed blood under his left eye. Joe’s heavy signet ring had left another ugly gash on Poncherello’s right cheekbone at the outside corner of his eye.

For a suspended moment, the two men had stared at each other in disbelief and shock. A sudden sick shame had overwhelmed Joe’s hatred and anger, dissolving into a nauseating disgust, and Getraer couldn’t have said if it was disgust for the man hunched before him, or for himself.

Blood was running down Poncherello’s lip from his left nostril, as he lurched past Getraer and out of the room.

Now, for another lingering hesitation, Joe continued to stand there, fighting back the welling nausea, eyes closed, body trembling with adrenalin surge. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Timmy come to his senses with a little sob of shock and fear, then bolt to the door. People were crowding at the door now, but he didn’t want to face their questions or remarks right now, he just wanted to be by himself and sort out what had just happened.

Barging through the cluster of onlookers, he marched into his office and slammed the door. It was turning into one hell of a day.

It hadn't started out that way.

Poncherello and Baker had been off the road today, awaiting special orders, so they were hanging around the office, finishing up paperwork, catching up on odds and ends, just standing by. But if there was one thing Poncherello didn’t know how to do, it was to ‘just stand by’. So after three hours of Poncherello bouncing into the sergeant’s office every ten minutes with a question or com­ment or suggestion, Getraer had finally sent him and Baker home to stand by there and get out from underfoot. Getraer would call when word came.

Two hours later the orders came through. Getraer had tried to phone, but the phone only buzzed incessantly busy. Either Poncherello was talking with his evening’s date, or the phone had been carelessly left off the hook. That wouldn’t be abnormal for Poncherello – the trailer he called home should have been declared a national disaster area long ago. Anyway, after fifteen futile minutes, the sergeant decided it would be quicker if he just rode his motor over there and delivered the message personally. Surprise ‘em with a personal visit.

Well, he surprised them all right.

He had knocked on the trailer door, but obviously they couldn’t hear his knock. The stereo was loud enough to drown out an air-raid siren. So he twisted the door knob and found it unlocked. Opening the door, he stepped in, calling, “Poncherello! Baker!”

And for the first time that day, got the wind knocked out of him.

Poncherello and Baker lay on the couch – together. Uniforms unbuttoned and unzipped, hands exploring beneath shirts and pants, mouths searching passionately.

They had all caught sight of each other at the same moment. Time stopped short as they stared at each other in frozen shock and horror; then Joe ran out and took off on his motor. He never even thought to give them the message.

That had been half an hour ago. He had never expected them to show up back at the office. He had sent two other motor officers on the special assignment. His brain was still trying to compre­hend the scene he had stumbled upon, and still it came back incomprehensible. Frank and Jon were good officers, good friends of the family – how could something like this be going on right under your nose and you never smell it? – but then he had looked at the boy, had offered him a soda with his filthy faggot hands, and Joe would have killed to protect Timmy.

Protect him from what?

Getraer slouched in his chair. His gut twisted slickly. He had lost his temper senselessly, he had behaved irrationally. He knew… he _knew_ Frank would not molest the boy, would never in the world hurt Timmy. And yet Joe had seen Frank give Timmy the coke, and everything had just gone black, and he had attacked the man. He had committed battery. Unprovoked and inexcusable. He had struck a subordinate, had hit him hard enough to cut his face. Poncherello could sue him, he could be held for criminal charges, he could even lose his job. For a sergeant to strike a subordinate, there would be no leniency, there _could_ be no leniency.

A light knock on the door. “Joe, may I come in?” The watch lieutenant.

Joe released a heavy breath. Better to face it now. “Come in.”

Bill Thatcher entered, closing the door quietly behind himself, and took the chair at the side of Joe’s desk. Joe met the lieutenant’s quiet gaze for a moment, then turned his head. He sighed again.

“Joe…” The senior officer hesitated. “I just left Poncherello in the men’s room, told him to go to medical, get his face looked at.”

Joe nodded.

The two men sat together in silence for maybe a minute or so. Joe couldn’t answer the un­asked questions that hovered between them. At least not until his brain settled down could he begin to cogitate on what the revelation would mean to his life, to his career… to Poncherello’s career.

Again Thatcher tried to break the ice. “Poncherello said it was an accident. He said he tripped and fell against the coffee machine. I don’t… blame him for saying that… I think he wants to leave it up to you. So – what happened?”

Joe’s shoulders sagged. Thumb and forefinger squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I dunno, Bill… I just don’t know. I don’t know what got into me… I just …”

“Joe… I’m your lieutenant, but dammit, I’m your friend too. You know that. But I can’t ig­nore what just happened – or what people reported you said to Poncherello.”

“I know.” Resignedly Joe nodded. “Where’s Timmy now?”

“He’s at Bonnie’s desk. I think she’s given him some paper and felt pens to draw with. Joe… I’ve noticed you’ve been pretty uptight recently. Is there some personal problem that’s bothering you? trouble at home or something?”

“No.”

The lieutenant nodded. Getting up from his chair, he strolled to the back of the office to stare blankly at the overflowing bulletin board. Joe didn’t bother to follow the man with his gaze.

How could something like this happen? One moment of thoughtlessness, one stupid careless act, and your whole life is fouled up. All your life you’re conscientious, protective, providing for your home and family; and then in one instant of blind unreasoning passion, you just throw the whole thing away. What would Betty say? Would she consider him a dangerous violent unpredictable man now, and take Timmy and leave? If the CHP fired him, where would he ever find another job? Right now his whole existence was on the line, and for the first time in his life he was really scared.

Thatcher returned to Joe’s desk. He was watching Joe carefully. The older man strolled over to rest a hip on the desk corner near Joe’s chair. Joe glanced up, glanced down.

Finally the lieutenant spoke again. “Joe, there’s a… another question I have to ask. Now, I already know the answer, but I… have to ask it anyway – for the record.”

Perfunctorily Joe nodded.

“Do you have any problem with drugs or alcohol?’

“No.” Joe slumped in his chair, rubbed a hand over his face in a tired gesture.

The older man leaned forward. “Now, talk to me. Why did you call Poncherello a ‘faggot’? It’s certainly not like you to use inflammatory language.”

Joe’s gaze wandered aimlessly over the desktop clutter. Then he commented, “I wonder if his nose is broken.”

“Yeah, I don’t know – it was bleeding a lot in the men’s room. I’m sure they’ll x-ray it.”

“Yeah.” Another long silence. And then:

“I went over to Poncherello’s place this afternoon, and I… accidentally caught Baker and him in a… questionable situation.”

“A homosexual situation?”

“Yes. And… then… just now, I saw him in the lunch room with Timmy… and, I dunno… I just lost it.”

“Was he acting inappropriately with your son?”

A humorless smile. “No. He was handing him a soda can.” Finally Joe met his superior’s gaze. “I’ve got no excuse, no defense. So whatever discipline you order…”

“We’ll get to that later, Joe. In the meantime, I want you to take the rest of the day off – there’s only a couple of hours left anyway. Tomorrow I want your report, and I’ll get Poncherello’s statement as well. No doubt the captain will place you on administrative leave until this is sorted out.” The man got up to leave. “All right. And if you want to talk before tomorrow, you call me.”

Again Joe nodded. “Yeah.” And then the man was gone.

. . . . .

 _to be continued_ … _someday_ …


End file.
